Shattered Mirror
by ChaosInGeneral
Summary: Every person starts as a blank slate and a few events can make a person's personality do a 180. I take one of the "favorite" characters of the show, Jackson, and make his life...more realistic. Let's see what happens, shall we? T for violence.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Flight 29 Down—the book, movie, or TV show—or anything really. I just have a good imagination, mostly._

_Ghost (noun): 1. a person who takes on an image that renders him nearly invisible to the people around him, 2. a person who doesn't stir up trouble, a person who doesn't get involved in gangs or disputes. Normally refers to a person of European decent. _

_I meant that as a non-offensive description. It's a slang word I, or someone else I guess, made up to describe something. Because, trust me, it's a true rarity to see a white person around here. Especially one that doesn't get hospitalized. It's even more rare when there's more than one. _

Summary:

Jackson has had it rough, after being taken away from his "abusive" father and even before that. He was in a decent foster home but can no longer stay, forcing him to move back to live with his "reformed" father for two months before being placed in a new and improved foster home with an excellent private school waiting for him (which will no doubt be a shock, after him "schooling himself" for the past few months). New characters (of course) and old collide in what may be vaguely interesting to you.

Jackson will still be an enigma, but this is a (hopefully) more rational glance at gang life, abuse, etc. And, yeah, I am still coming to terms with a white, non-tattooed and non-scarred non-creep that doesn't watch/plan dog-fights or do/sell drugs, who also looks more like a male model than some Al Capone.

_Warning: This is rated T for teen now, because of the level of violence and plain bluntness, but review if you think the rating should be higher. Frankly, I'm well known for being "brutally honest", so I'm sure my writing carries that trait. I tend to lean a little towards dark, too. So...sorry. If you have to think T for teen just be warned that rating is more like Skins, rather than Flight 29 Down. Sorry if I offend anyone, but honestly, if you don't feel comfortable already don't read. There will be: mild violence, some scenes with moderate abuse in them (nothing like incest, don't worry), and possible parts where people may or may not be holding hands, kissing, or spreading their germs in other ways. The last one is mildly doubtful. I may have said this before (or not), but I'm not one for "cutesy". _

**Preface**

Jackson sat, watching as a mother fixed up some little kid's hurt knee. The little guy was bawling his eyes out.

_How pathetic._

"Jack! Jack! Look what I can do!"

His head swiveled around, until his eyes fell on one of his current foster mother's strays (as she called them). This one had blaringly red hair that stood up at all kinds of weird angles. He was about nine, probably. Currently, he was hanging upside down from the monkey bars.

_I never did that as a kid. It was too dangerous. My Dad would've flipped out._

He sighed. "Good job," he muttered unenthusiastically.

_Why do kids always expect praise for everything they do? They won't be told this junk once they're older._

"You don't think it's cool?" the kid asked him.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Hey, Toby," he said, glancing at the chunky kid with the buzz cut Miranda had taken in recently, a few weeks before the other one. "Can you do that?"

"S-sure," Toby stammered, walking over.

_Why is he so scared? I never did anything to him. Doesn't he know the worst thing in the world to be is weak?_

He watched curiously as Toby tried to imitate the other one. He only remembered their names once they had been at the house for about a week. After that, they tended to stay for a month or two so he figured it was worth it.

He watched as he fell, once, twice, and then managed to do it perfectly. He allowed himself a small half smile. "Frankly, John, I think what Toby just did is more amazing. He's fat; you're lanky as a toothpick. Obviously, it's harder on him."

Toby let out a squeak. He ignored him. He was overweight. Better to tell him now than let him go on and pretend he was handsome. Once he got into high school he'd realize soon enough, maybe even in junior high. Some kid would forget to be nice.

"My name isn't John," the red-head muttered, finally speaking as he let himself plop down to the ground. He winced at the plop.

_My Dad definitely wouldn't have allowed _that_._

"Then what is it? You definitely look like a John Doe to me," he drawled, leaning back on the park bench.

The red-head huffed. "Are you referring to me as a dead person?"

"No. I'm referring to you as the person whose name I don't care to remember at this moment," he hissed.

The red-head froze, now scared, and obviously scared at that.

_What is with them? Are they just taking these kids away from their parent or parents randomly? They're terrified, wimps. What's up with that? You can't be weak, or you don't survive. Maybe they're ghosts?_

"My name's Tyler," he whispered finally, scooting back closer to Toby.

"Eh," he said, shrugging.

"You really don't care, do you?" Tyler asked, narrowing his eyes. He stood a head taller than Toby, but he still was pathetic; scrawny as heck.

"Not really," he responded, stretching out on the bench further, looking like a hobo without his Hoover blanket.

"Why did Miranda even take you in? You're a pain," Tyler hissed.

He raised an eyebrow, looking between the two. Toby gulped, looking at Tyler with wide eyes. They thought he'd hurt them, still. Why? He had no idea. He wasn't civil, but he also wasn't violent. Plus, he took them wherever they wanted to go.

"I am? Good to know," he said, slowly. "Just go play."

Toby tugged on Tyler's arm, finally dragging the bratty red-head off.

_I'd have gotten smacked for comments like that._

His Dad had been a character, definitely. He'd worried about doctor's bills, but he hadn't worried truly about his well-being. He hadn't worried about his psyche, definitely; not like so many parents did these days. All he believed in was true Darwin style Survival of the Fittest. If you didn't work, you starved. It was like living under a Fascist Dictatorship, with a population of two. Basically, he agreed with George Bernard Shaw on a few things. He hadn't been crazy, like the people who'd taken him away had said, loudly. He was smarter, probably smarter than most people around. He'd known 9/11 was going to happen, six months beforehand. He was intelligent. But he didn't understand human nature, at all.

_At least I'm not that bad. Maybe if Mom hadn't left he wouldn't have changed._

He'd been told his Dad had been more normal, less extreme when he was younger. But his mother leaving him with him had broken him. Her leaving had broken him. In essence, he figured he'd given her his whole heart. When she'd gone, she'd taken his soul with her.

_Luckily I won't be letting anyone have my heart._

"Hey."

He jumped, being shaken out of his reverie by the voice. He looked up, seeing a freckle-faced girl with unruly strawberry blonde hair.

"Hey," he said back, warily.

Recently, his father had brought around a lot of bimbos; bleached blonde, tight clothes, fake body parts. This girl seemed far too young, but you never could tell. Gray looked to be in her early twenties, but she worked just the same. He was vaguely worried that one of them would come after him, crying and screaming and very willing to claw up the son of the man that had wronged her. He never kept one around for too long, after all.

"So, saw you sitting here and wanted to talk to you," the girl said, sitting down beside him, on his right. He raised an eyebrow.

_At least this one isn't a stuttering fool. I swear those new Romance novels rot girls' brains. Of course, girls have always wanted abusive, tough boyfriends. Anyone who wants what I've more or less had for the past fifteen years needs medical help._

"Sorry, that was kind of forward," the girl apologized, after a moment of silence. "I'm Natalie."

"Jackson," he said, calmly.

She looked thoughtful. "Nice name," she said.

He nodded, watching her closely, tense. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

"Well, you seemed to be interacting with your little brothers okay and by that I mean you didn't just tell them to buzz off," she said.

He scoffed. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah, I heard you being brutally honest, yes," she said, frowning slightly.

He blinked, surprised. This was new.

"I also saw you had a rocking body. I don't mind either, so I thought I might as well say hello," she finished.

He blinked again. "That's different."

She laughed, throwing her head back. "Don't worry, I know," she said, brown eyes sparkling. "I can tell you're not interested, though."

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Gay?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

He chuckled. If he'd had it in him, he'd have liked this girl. She was spunky. But he knew he didn't need to get in a relationship. No girl deserved his massive amounts of baggage—they'd get crushed under it all.

"No. Well, probably not. I do look like a punk, though, yes," he mused.

"Probably not?" she asked, grinning deviously.

"Let's just say no one really does it for me and leave it at that," he said, sitting up. "I like your personality, though."

She nodded. "Most don't."

"Yes, but at least people like us can look down on them with pity," he said, grinning wolfishly.

"People like us?" she asked him, crooking an eyebrow.

He hummed, not exactly a response.

"They aren't my brothers," he said instead, after five minutes of relatively comfortable silence.

She jumped beside him, obviously startled.

"They're my foster brothers," he said, adding onto what he'd said before. "You don't want to know me, baby."

"I figured. You do have that whole deranged, emotional freak thing going on for you," she said, grinning slyly again. "Good luck with your life. Break a leg and all that," she added, standing up. He noted her ripped jeans and burned out top. Still, like the average woman, she thought showing off her body was the only way to live.

_The true question is why don't girls like seeing guys half dressed. It seems unfair._

"Bye, Natalie," he said, watching as she walked off without another word.

He somehow wished he could get with her, she seemed nice enough and just not nice enough to suit him. But like he said, she deserved better. Messed up people shouldn't date the other messed up people of their world. It could only end in problems, mainly with one or the other ending up dead (see _Romeo and Juliet_ for reference, since they were both whacked). Or, as a general rule, messed up people shouldn't date until they're mostly fixed.

But as long as the rule of victim and victimizer never showed itself in him, maybe someday he could. Maybe like five years from now, once he was out of the blasted system and hopefully not in jail.

_For now, I just have to wait. Wait and watch, like always._

_A/N: This was short because it was a Preface. If Jackson is creepy…well, he was supposed to be. I try not to get into dramatics too much, but tell me if I am leaning towards theatrics. Eh, review if you would and if you flame me I'll lend those flames to the pyromaniac person in the duo that own this account. You got to help those poor pyromaniacs out (otherwise they'll set your pants on fire), so flame away if you wish. Make it a good flame, though, and follow basic procedures. _

_And, if you have any ideas I'd like it if you shared (via review or PM). I'm not exactly sure where to go with this. It could be a complete AU or I could go through the motions of them crashing on the island. It's really up to you guys, since I'm unsure about what to write now. This idea just popped into my head for reasons I will not state, so I'm lost. _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: So, I decided to post another chapter even though I'm pretty sure this all sucks. Eh, I like writing even though it's one of those many things I'm not good at (though I have been told otherwise by a few people, but they're supposed to say junk like that). I mean, everyone that knows me knows I'm only good at scheming and playing on people's emotions. Oh whatever. Enjoy?_

_Disclaimer: I did not come up with F29Dwn; therefore please do not sue me. I'm a copy cat, not a felon. That's why I'm here, not producing a Japanese version of the show. See?_

_Oh, and, yeah, it'll be slow for this chapter and after this one everything should speed up. Hopefully. I'd like there to be some suspense...but I'll probably just write a yawn-fest. Dang it._

**Chapter One: **_**Home**_** Can Be Just a Noun**

Jackson walked Toby and Tyler home, bored out of his mind. They were chatting excitedly about something, but it didn't have anything to do with him so he ignored it.

_At least they're close in age, so they can be friends. I'm the oldest stray Miranda has ever taken in._

"Cody!" Miranda called, shouting loudly.

He frowned. He never had liked his first name; he always went by Jackson or Jack nowadays. Mostly Jackson (but kids will be kids).

"Yeah, Miranda?" he asked, his voice sounding tired to his own ears.

"That's Ms. Sanders to you, Cody, and you know it," she berated, as she crossed her arms under her chest.

He shrugged. "What is it?" he asked, somewhat warily, just as the two twin terrors ran off to play with the three-legged dog Miranda had also taken in, some Lab Mix that liked just about anyone. Well, except him, of course. Obviously, a man had maimed the dog and he didn't like adult males anymore.

Miranda sighed and brushed a dark coil of hair out of her face. "I have some bad news."

His heart clenched in his chest at that. "What sort of bad news? I'm being kicked to the curb bad or somebody died bad?"

"Aren't those about equal?"

"Not in my mind," he growled harshly.

She winced. "Well, you see, I run a home for kids who need emergency help. You weren't able to be placed." He heard the add-on: because you're trouble, because you're old, because you're weak.

"I realize that," he said, crossing his arms as well, as he felt hostility in the air. He could always feel things like that, always had. Reading people was easy when you learned how.

"I can't keep you anymore, Cody," she said softly. "I only keep children for about five months and then they tend to go somewhere else."

He grunted in response, not sure what to say to that.

_So it is I'm being kicked to the curb bad._

"You've stayed with me for eight months and, well, other children need help, too. I've done what I can. I'm sorry," she said, her dark eyes slightly sympathetic but mostly guarded.

She was always guarded, and oftentimes a little scared (of him).

"Well, where am I going to live?" he asked finally, feeling resigned. He'd lived on the road before and it wasn't too awful (even though indoor plumbing was amazing on so many levels). Plus, his life's belongings could be shoved into a single oversized backpack.

"You'll be staying with your father for a little while," she said, very quietly, like she was nervous about telling him. He stepped up another step, getting onto the porch with her. She took a step back.

"What?" he asked; his voice low. "If they were going to give me back, why did they take me away from him in the first place?"

She blinked at him, her face carefully blank. "He's attended a lot of AA meetings now. He's better."

He scoffed, as he looked around the porch, noting the peeling smoky-blue paint and yellow glider. He didn't want to leave, even if this place was a dump. He felt some sense of belonging here. At home, he didn't. He was a foreign invader.

"Better how? Does he not cuss out everything that moves or press broken glass bottles against people's throats?" Jackson asked, and his teeth grinded together as he waited on her answer.

Instead of answering his question, Miranda just started talking about something else, while pulling her gray, wool shawl closer around her narrow shoulders. "You won't have to stay long. A couple in L.A., a better part of it, are willing to take you in. They lost four children and have adopted, too, one who is Dyslexic. They want to help more children now that their adopted kids are getting older."

He scowled. "How long will I have to stay with my father, then?"

"Two months," Miranda squeaked out, obviously getting intimidated.

He almost rolled his eyes, once again. He wasn't that scary. He was tall, sure, and he was fairly muscular, fine, but he wasn't more dangerous than the average Joe. Anyone could pick up a kitchen knife and slam it into another person's chest, after all. It didn't take a hoodlum to do so. Plus, most crimes were done by freaks with odd fetishes or vengeful old boyfriends. He was neither (in his mind at least).

"Okay," he said finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, his slightly too-small black shirt riding up a little. He needed some new clothes, he noted.

"Okay?" Miranda looked baffled, her brow scrunched and plastered-on-red lips puckered; her version of a confused face.

"Yeah," he barked out. "If what you said is true, I don't have anything to worry about, right? I mean, if I get killed they might fine you, too."

"Cody, no one is going to kill you."

"And you're sure about that how?" he asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he scowled at her, his eyes flashing. "I'm assuming my father still lives in a shotgun style house in a majority impoverished black and Hispanic based neighborhood?"

"Well, yes, his address hasn't changed."

"I'd better put 911 on speed dial, then. I might not have time to punch in all three numbers."

Miranda actually gulped. Good for her. Now she understood how his world worked. You lived fast, you died young. That was how it worked. It was a mini society, his Dad's neighborhood, unlike anything he'd seen before. Police were afraid to go near and they'd tell you just to deal with your problems yourself, or laugh at you over the phone. If you were white and driving around, you'd get pulled over. Guns were shot so constantly you could find bullets in your roof if you redid it, like a neighbor across the street had. Things were not good. There was even a pet store that advertised Pit Bull Puppies of All Breeds (probably designed by an idiot who didn't understand that pit bulls were all part of one breed).

He'd been told when he was younger, when he was nine or so (he forgot the year), when they'd first taken him, that they'd protect him, that the government could take care of him and find him a new home. He'd thought those people were insane. He'd never known a life without his Dad in it, a life apart from the isolated backwater neighborhood he'd grown up in. Everything they talked about had confused him more, especially when they'd asked him about his mother.

_Where does she live?_ He'd shrugged.

_Does she live with you?_ He'd said _no_.

_Did she pass away? _He'd shrugged.

_What's her name?_ He'd said _I don't know; I never met her_. (Which was the truth, more or less—he couldn't remember ever meeting her to this day.)

Twenty-four minutes had passed, with him just glancing at the clock and then at his bags, while trying to finish a book he'd started called _City of Thieves_.

_And it's probably one of the most depressing books I've ever read. What an ending!_

He shuddered, thinking about the cruelty and horror that was in the book, along with the actual place—the U.S.S.R.—where it was based it. It made his life's troubles seem like child's play.

Whenever he felt down, he always tried to read something that made him feel sorrier for someone else than himself—it was better than reading happy books, since they always made him feel sorry for himself. It was like, oh, yeah, so you save your family's life and get the girl with the perfect personality and body, that's sure to happen in real life.

Of course, most people's version of reality seemed fake to me. They lived in a world all their own, where people who were depressed or sad were handed off to people they didn't know, to talk to them, as if that helped anything. It was like what they'd done to him. So his Dad was drunk a lot. So what? He didn't hit him, after all. He was mean as a kicked rattlesnake but he'd never gotten physical (unless you counted on random incident when he'd been drunk and _high_). Everyone got upset, everyone had a temper. It wasn't too big of a deal, honestly.

And how could you blame someone for something if you were just the same as them? The apple didn't fall far from the tree. That had something to do with him. He was a version of his father, fifteen years younger with a little bit more emotion to him. That was all. Sooner or later, he and his father would be the same people.

_Unless I make different choices…but when have I ever? We're programmed to act a certain way…and how can I forget…?_

_A/N: Yeah, so review if you like (or don't like). Or just read. I don't really care. Just don't flame unless you plan to sound snobby and have perfect British grammar, because then it's funny. I can laugh at about anything, however (knee jerk reaction), so it won't really matter anyway._

_Just don't act stupid. If one more person says something stupid I'm going to punch the wall. I swear, between reality TV, the news, and people around me looking at me like I'm a circus tiger I'm about to go insane. Get a grip on reality, PLEASE. Please, please, please..._

_Otherwise, I'll have to drag you downtown with the rest of the useful idiots of the world and show you spots loved by hobos and women of questionable integrity. THEN maybe you will get some sense in your melon. _

_Don't be a useful idiot. It's a very sad pastime. Trust me._

_Anyway... See ya next time if I didn't completely scare you off. I don't handle "people" well. You all freak me out. Even online. Luckily, YOU can't stare at me like a circus tiger about to eat someone. That's why I'm here..._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Hope you all still like this, readers. Thank Th Ghst f Slss Frnc for some extra editing. _

_Special thanks to: readerchick6 and The Ghst f Slss Frnc for reviewing._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Flight 29 Down; I'm just bending its characters to my will to make the show more T-rate worthy and slightly more realistic (in my mind). –Cujo_

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**Chapter Two: Cattie **

Jackson had packed his bags by now, the meager two lined up by his scratched up door. They held everything he owned, which wasn't much. Clothes, notebooks with his class notes in them (he hoped he'd be learning the same thing), a few tattered books (A New York Yankee in King Arthur's Court, the Foundation Trilogy, etc.)—just stuff. He didn't have any personal belongings, like a journal, posters with half naked women, or whatever. He wondered what anyone would think if he died, just by going through his belongings.

They'd probably wonder about who he actually was. They could only guess he liked old, dusty books and wore baggy, second-hand clothes.

He sighed, not liking where his thoughts were going, and sat down on his bed, which creaked under his weight.

He wondered also about what would happen when he got home. Would his Dad magically be better—bright and chipper? That would be bizarre. Would he be normal, cussing at him as soon as he walked through the door or ignoring him? He couldn't guess.

A few minutes later, Miranda stuck her head in the door. "Jackson, it's time to go," she said. She sounded like she felt guilty.

_You should be._

"Already?" he asked, surprised at the fact it was already eleven. If Tyler hadn't stolen his alarm clock…maybe he would at least have had a chance to talk to one of the few people he cared about.

"Yes," Miranda said, softly. "Do you have everything packed?"

He nodded, hair falling in his eyes. "Yeah, I do."

"Good. Come on, then."

He picked up his mostly empty backpack and over night bag off the sun-streaked floor and followed her calmly down the hallway.

He felt slightly like a man awaiting execution.

_Well, that was a dramatic thought._

The dark hallway, very little sunlight, nobody around but Miranda, since both boys were at school, made it seem a bit like he was being led to a hanging or whatever it was called now—except he was going home.

Of course, weren't the inmates, if you were going by what a few people he knew thought?

Personally, he thought that, too. He didn't understand anyone that didn't. Sure, it might not be true, but a shot at _heaven_ is a shot at heaven. Plus, wearing my Grandfather's cross, it felt wrong to _not_. And knowing somebody would punish your enemies for you was sweet.

"You look a little…tired," Miranda commented, glancing back at him. She looked like a raccoon, mascara making a wide band around her eyes. He didn't tell her that.

He scowled. "I didn't sleep well."

"Why?" Miranda asked. He heard what she was trying to say, anyway. _Sorry?_

"Nightmares," he responded dryly. In truth, he'd just been tossing and turning, too worried to sleep—his answer made her flinch, though, which made him feel quite accomplished.

"So, who's driving me?" he asked, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulder.

"Uh, your case worker—Mr. Rothenberg—will be driving you there. You two can talk about everything…" Miranda said, weakly.

He nodded. He _severely _disliked that guy. He was a sneering demeaning jerk. But, hey, he found him places to stay so he couldn't truly hate him.

"Okay," He said, calmly. They stayed on the porch until a smoky gray sedan pulled up, Mr. Rothenberg's car. It was a nice one, too. "There isn't a scratch on it!" was his proud exclamation whenever someone brought it up.

"Bye," Jackson told Miranda. "See you later." wasn't appropriate.

"Good bye, Cody. Take care," she said, awkwardly standing there. She seemed to want to comfort him in some way, but didn't know how.

"I'll try," he mumbled, before walking down the steps and towards the car.

"Hey, sonny," Mr. Rothenberg greeted him, a little too brightly. It freaked him out. "Just toss your stuff in the back."

He nodded and opened the back door, before putting his stuff on the leather seats. He then went back around and got into his own seat, buckling up.

"Well, you're not very talkative today…" Mr. Rothenberg mused, smiling widely.

He frowned at him, eyes going over his lanky figure, thinning brown hair, and smug face.

"You know," he continued, as he started the car, "when we first tried to place you, you were bawling your eyes out and yelling at us, saying you wanted to go home. You don't seem to want to, now. I guess we were right."

Jackson purposefully looked out the window, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Of course, now since you're unable to be adopted because of your past…well, not unable but everyone knows it won't happen…you'll be going back!"

Jackson whirled around, almost snarling. "Shut up! Just shut up!"

"So touchy…"

Jackson slammed the door, as he got out of Mr. Rothenberg's car. The man yelled at him from inside, but he ignored him. He grabbed his bags out of the backseat, still ignoring him, and slammed the back door as well. He smirked at Mr. Rothenberg and waved goodbye, before walking quickly towards his father's house.

He froze about two steps forward. He'd forgotten how…small it was. The porch was hardly big enough for the rusty chair that sat on it and the railing was clearly rotten, dark, dusty windows, very small as well, yawned at him, and the fresh-cut grass green siding was as much of a horror as always. It literally made your eyes hurt.

He sighed, as he heard the car behind him start up and speed up, going much faster than the 25 MPH that was allowed. Of course, no one wanted to hang around. He just walked forward once again, crossing over the sandy yard, and up the creaky steps to the front door. He opened the outer mesh door and knocked.

No one came to answer it.

He groaned, shaking his head in annoyance, and then found the spare key under the stone lion beside the door. It had always been there and you'd think someone would have robbed the place by now.

Of course, they had nothing worth stealing.

He unlocked the door then put the key back in place. He walked into the dark house and flipped on the lights. The same taupe couch sat across from an ancient TV with bunny ears tied together with tin foil. The floor was still a wavy wooden mass with burnt spots from cigarette butts. The previously white walls were yellowed.

_Welcome home!_

He took out his cell phone, something that had been a gift from Miranda a few months ago—one of those prepaid things that had a certain number of minutes—and called one of the very few numbers on there, which was marked with the name Cattie.

He sat down on the couch, which quite frankly at a smell all its own, and waited as her phone, wherever she was, ringed over and over. Finally, at the fourth ring, she picked up.

"_Hey?"_ she asked, her voice the same deep, gravelly it always was.

He smiled to himself, even though he knew he was in for two months of h-e-double-hockey-sticks (his previous caretaker, before Miranda, had been a stuffy old woman that hated swearing—she'd switch you if you said anything vaguely "yahoo-like"). "Hey, Cattie…"

"_Where are you?"_ she asked him, and he noticed the bass thumping wherever she was. She was probably at Cleopatra. _"You were supposed to meet me an hour ago. To have a chat…"_

"A chat?" he asked, chuckling quietly.

"_That's what we do! Talk, talk, talk…like a pair of girls in church…"_

"Well, I'm home," he said, ignoring her comment. Normally, he would have full out laughed, but this wasn't the place.

"_Wait, what?"_

He heard a deep groan somewhere in the house and shuffling. His Dad was waking up. Well, hopefully that was all he was doing…

He cringed. "I'm at home—at my Dad's place. I have to go… I'll see you on Saturday, okay? Bye."

"Jackson—"

He pushed the red button, and their call went out. He sighed and shoved the phone into his pocket, as his Dad limped out, one hand on his cane.

"Hello," he said. He looked like a heavier, bulkier, and meaner version of House. He'd been a cop at one point…until he was shot, unable to walk by himself.

Now he was…this.

"Hi," he said, meekly.

"Long time, no see, huh? Want me to get you a drink? …Scotch?"

Jackson gulped. "No thanks…"

"Too bad… I was hoping I could use that excuse for why I had that…of course, that would get me in jail…"

"Uh, well, can I put my stuff in my bedroom?"

"Whatever."

Jackson nodded and slipped past, his posture going from proud and strong to a servant's. He knew he shouldn't be scared of him, but it was his unpredictable nature that really got to him. He never knew what would happen next…

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_A/N: Short and sweet? Annoyingly short? Anyway, thanks for reading…hope you liked it. If you like funny stuff, The Monster and I currently have a collaborated fanfic up-it'll have Flight 29 Down characters in it eventually. You can find that in our Profile. If you like sick/crude funny stuff, read adversary2113's work. He has fallen off the face of the earth and we want him back, so pester him. _


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note:_

_So, I'm back with another chapter. You can thank Th Ghst f Slss Frnc for parts of Abby's bit. And, yeah, I do know Abby and Jackson never met previously. Sorry...but I'm taking a poetic license with this one, trust me._

_Oh, and by the way, I probably should change the summary...since it didn't really cover all I plan to do. Each character is getting a face-lift. But don't worry; it won't look like those god-awful "pimped" cars that used to be across the street from me. I mean, you don't really need to have bullet holes in your car and flames down the sides. You just don't. Your cars also don't need to have the ability to "hop". Spend the money on food, please!_

_Sorry, I got carried away. Oh, and to one reviewer: yes, Jackson will be with Melissa eventually (read: yes, they will snog), since they match well enough, I suppose. I would put Jackson with Abby, since they fit better, but whatever. _

_What? Opposites attract. Jackson is mellow and Abby is...not. _

_Melissa is mellow and weepy and Jackson is mellow and weepy. They're like those 40-year-olds that get divorces!_

_No? _

_Well, I'm a bad judge. That's why Th Ghst f Slss Frnc is here since she's much better with relationship drama and the rules of attraction, since personally I'm a dark drama type and you all look like Pollock's paintings to me. –Squints-_

_By the way, if you notice "stars" or empty spots, Casper informed me she wouldn't beta if I had a "potty mouth". ...Sorry...?_

_Anyway, enjoy...just not too much..._

**Three: Cleopatra **

_**/Abby/ (One Month before the Trip)**_

She was sitting in a tiny office, surrounded by five other gray plastic chairs, a potted plant, a water fountain, and the door to a single stall bathroom. She had her ear-buds in and was listening to music, mindlessly.

She was watching as her mother, a clearly more Japanese woman, flirted openly with a mechanic.

_Ugh. He's not even good looking! _

She rolled her eyes and just flicked the screen of her iPod, turning on Regina Spektor's Blue Lips. It was a pathetic, sad song and she might as well.

She liked to listen to music that matched her mood and right now she needed to side with pathetic and angsty rather than violent. As in violent enough to use her martial arts skill from when she was younger on that guy's face...

Her Mom then returned; doing that funny walk she did when she wanted some guy to stare at her "derrière". (Her mother _hated_ swearing.)

_I formally pledge to never act like a..._

"Abby! Come on, let's go! _Big_ Jay just said our car is fine. Turns out that ticking sound we heard in the engine was just a bracelet. Imagine that?"

Abby sighed and stood up.

_I bet she's already curious about his nickname... I bet there's just a Little Jay around here. I also bet they're both rappers or druggies or something like that..._

She bumped into someone as she walked past. She glanced over and saw a guy, looking kind of scared.

"Oh! Sorry!" he exclaimed, backing up. His voice was deeper than the other guy's and he seemed closer to her age. He was a blond, though.

Odd...what's he doing down here? Everyone knows...

"It's okay, you didn't mean to and I wasn't watching where I was going," she just said, shrugging her shoulders while mentally burying the thought. She got enough trouble for being Asian; she didn't need to think like that.

_Maybe that was just something that happened near the Bronx?_

She'd traveled a lot, following her Dad with work. She'd seen some neighborhoods so divided by race that people could be shot there, without doing something, just because of their skin color.

Of course, this wasn't New York. And she'd been in California for enough years to realize everything worked differently in a state that had a supposed one-fourth ratio of insane to sane.

"I'm still sorry, is there anything I can do for you, anyway?" the guy asked, crossing his arms.

_Why is he defensive?_

"No, not really," she said quickly, beginning to walk to her Mom again.

"Come on, buddy!" the guy named Big Jay yelled from somewhere unseen. "We have an old 1980 Pinto just in."

The blond rolled his eyes. "...A Pinto? ...Seriously?"

Abby blinked at him, not getting it. He jumped into explanation.

"A Pinto was a type of 70s through 80s car; a station wagon type car. Ugly..."

She nodded, still not quite getting it. She had a fleeting thought of a hippie-era van, but that wouldn't be it.

"Bye," she said, mumbling, then hurried over to her Mom.

Her Mom turned out to be standing at the door, looking annoyed. Her right foot was tapping.

"What?" Abby questioned, not getting it.

"Don't you be getting any ideas, young lady," her Mom said.

She blinked. "Pardon...?"

"That guy," her Mom said distastefully while pointing openly at the kid, "looks like trouble. Didn't you seem him? All dark clothes and..."

Abby sighed, not wanting to deal with this. "I'm not going to date him. We just shared a few words."

"Phone numbers?"

"No! Jeez! I'm not like that."

"Fine, but..."

Abby just walked towards the car. She didn't like being this way to the woman who was supposedly her Mom, but she was so frustrating! She didn't chase after anything that moved.

_Not like her..._

Her Mom followed her. "I'm just saying. It's okay if you liked him—he is pretty—but he's a mechanic."

_Weren't you just flirting with a mechanic? And _you're _married!_

"Pretty?" she asked dryly.

"You know what I mean! Let's just go..."

_Thank goodness..._

**/Jackson/ (Two Weeks Previous)**

Jackson sat on the curb, in front of a seemingly average bookstore, as he waited on Cattie. It had actually managed to take two weeks before they could see each other again.

Those weeks had been heck on earth.

His dad _had_ been better, he could admit that, and he wasn't drinking. But that meant he was in pain which meant he was more worked up than normal.

Not much had changed there. He was still every bad word on the face of the earth, according to him. Luckily, he knew he didn't mean it.

His dad just didn't know how to talk anymore, unless he was cussing. It made him what to find the woman who was his Mom and shake some sense into her. Ask why she'd played him. Ruined him...

"Hey, Sulky, what's up?"

He looked up to spot Cattie, a sickly thin girl with ratty black hair and gray-blue eyes, which were hidden behind thick, unstylish glasses (which she wore just for kicks). She was also the nicest person he knew. You couldn't tell from her illness-wrecked appearance, but she was.

It was just a survival thing, after all.

"Hey," he said finally, standing up.

"Ready to go in?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Sure?" was all he could offer.

She could light up a room with that smile. It was too bad she couldn't find her a decent guy—as in, not him and in a boyfriend kind of way...or just another friend.

She glanced at him, then back at the bookstore. "Am I allowed to hug you?"

"No. I don't give or receive hugs. Stop asking."

He smirked a little. He could remember telling her the same thing when he was younger. ...Much, much younger... Now he was getting sentimental.

It was one of his happier memories, though. Elementary school hadn't been too bad, when he'd lived here. It had been a nice mix of people. Then all the richer, nicer families packed up and fled, realizing the town was crashing and burning.

_Lucky b-..._

"Fine," she said after she took in his appearance, ending her sentence with a dreary sigh as she pushed past him and entered the store. "Come on then, Slick. Let's go."

He rolled his eyes. He was already up to two nicknames today. She must be in a good mood.

_Lucky _her_..._

She opened the door for him (something she was always sure to do, since she wanted to be a gentle_woman_), and the heavy glass thing swung closed behind them with a _clang_ and a jingling of bells.

Overkill was a word to describe the shop's pointless security. Well, not pointless if you realized it wasn't a bookstore...foremost.

Harris, appearing out of nowhere as usual, limped over and clapped them both on the shoulder.

"Hello! And how are you today?" he asked, in his bright-and-chipper satire voice.

"Fine, H," Cattie commented, getting herself out of his embrace.

He was harmless. But filthy...very, very filthy...and smelly...

"Now, now, don't be calling me after a drug, ma'am, you're too sweet for that," Harris claimed, as he wandered into the "back room where books were stored"—in other words, where Cleopatra was.

"Slow down," Jackson commented, with a faint smile on his face.

Doubtless of his old wound, the man could still get around like a sprinter.

"Fine," Harris said, pouting as he waited by the normally locked door. "You're no fun, you young folk."

Cattie rolled her eyes as they both wandered over, skirting the heaps of old, dusty books that rested on tables all over the smaller half of the building, the store front half.

"Just do that fancy knock of yours, already, James Bond, and let us in. I need some wine, now."

"You're so classy," Jackson whispered to her.

Cattie rolled her eyes, again. "Children drink wine all over Europe. Little Catholic kids do, too! There's much worse I could be doing..."

"I know, I know, but you could be doing a lot better," he mumbled, shifting away when she leaned too close.

Cattie just smacked on her gum, ignoring him. Harris did his thing and soon they were both allowed in. Harris made his way past the thick velvet drapes that marked the entry way and disappearing into the dusky room beyond.

"Let's go," Cattie mumbled and toed past him, slipping through the cloth, too.

He sighed and just followed them in. It was true; a glass of wine a day was a much better vice than shooting yourself u...

Never mind.

He just didn't like thinking about it, or anything else. Not thinking was his new hobby. Especially since Marcus had started looking for him again...

_Stop thinking about it, idiot! What were you just indorsing? Not thinking!_

His eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness as he just decided to race through the border, like an even bigger idiot. He stumbled into someone, who cussed at him. He winced and wandered away a bit.

He felt a familiar hand on his arm, talons included, and Cattie pulled him farther in, to the bar set up in the back. It was your average hole-in-the-wall liquor place, except it wasn't.

Ebony statues of Greek-looking women marked the border. More and more books, newer ones, were stacked increasingly throughout the place. The lighting came from a single red bulb up near the bar. Everything smelled like smoke.

It was his heaven, now—once again. The only safe place he could escape to. It had started as a place for a few veterans to meet, to swap drinks and talk about their time in Vietnam. Then, all but one died, one after another. Now it belonged to the remaining one's son, Mitch.

Mitch was part boss and part bouncer and nobody he didn't like were allowed close to the space. You weren't supposed to tell friends, either. If Mitch didn't know you, you weren't welcome. He was one of the few exceptions, since Cattie had brought him here for a drink.

He didn't drink, but he'd come anyway.

Mitch had thrown a bottle at his head.

Luckily, things had calmed down shortly after that. Everyone involved (and in the tiny room) could thank Cattie for that.

It wasn't surprising that Mitch was paranoid, however, so he didn't hold a grudge.

The neighborhood near here was all the sudden full of crazy don't-eat-meat, we-want-to-hug-murders and wild-borne, feral children (as far as he could tell) who didn't realize that the poor, oppressed neighbors of theirs would steal anything they left out.

After they figured that out, they hadn't been as friendly with their charity cases.

They were also quite rich, which meant more and more cops patrolled these parts now (according to Cattie).

And, quite frankly, what Mitch did _was_ illegal. It was a crime. No one thought of it like that, though. It didn't hurt anyone and whoever wanted their poison could always get it someplace else, too.

Of course, what was right and wrong was seen in so many views...

Theirs was focused on what it took to survive. Murder, attacking innocents or the unarmed, abusing somebody who you were supposed to love, hurting kids or animals—those were all things he thought was wrong.

This wasn't.

Of course, he didn't make the laws.

Funny how this place used to be lawless...

_And it's hilarious that in Oakland now they won't come if somebody robs you. It's spreading like an effing virus... _

The Second Law of Thermodynamics seemed to apply to people every so often. There was a mess of cruelty and violence in Rome at one point and it seemed like they were heading right for another wave of that. He could almost feel it in his bones.

Of course, now he was just being dramatic. He'd had a bad feeling recently, though. Maybe it was his Dad making him feel depressed?

It was tough living with a not-medically-inclined-and-a-little-overweight Dr. House, who doesn't seem to eat.

"Slick...what's with the brooding look? It doesn't look good on you," Cattie commented, as she yanked on his hand, trying to lead him over to the bar.

He shrugged, as best he could, as she hopped up onto a bar stool. Mitch gave them a nod, and then went about getting her normal drink.

"I don't know," he responded quietly. "Just thinking," he grumbled in disgust.

_Why can't I just stop today? Every time I stop thinking about one thing, I think of another..._

"Well then, stop thinking."

"I'd have to kill myself."

"Okay...then keep thinking."

"We have an agreement then?"

Cattie giggled and knocked back a glass; which looked like a shot glass, rather than those delicate wine glasses. He cringed.

"Yup...wanna shake on it?" she asked, licking her lips.

"No. You're disgusting. You bathe like, what, once a week?"

She laughed again, turning a few heads.

He just thought about how needed to get out of here...this whole city. Just settle down in some Midwestern town, working as a mechanic...or something. Just out of L.A...

He couldn't handle this scene anymore. It was making him sick.

"Cattie, I have to go soon," he said, lying through his teeth. "Can we just catch up, outside? I can't hear you over this music..."

"But Muse is awesome!" Cattie complained, but she put down her glass and stood up.

_We _both _need to get out of here..._

_A/N: So, this wasn't much. Sorry. I figured since this was about halfway to 5,000 words, I should stop, and continue with Part Two (Chapter Four: Blue Veins) next chapter. I hope you don't mind, but if you do mind, tell me nicely._

_Anyway, review if you are to this point. If you don't, it might take me much longer for the next half of this to be posted. And who would want that?_

_...Don't answer that._

_But, anyway, next time you should get to know Jackson's Dad a little better, get to know Cattie a little better, and learn how Jackson even got mixed up in gangs—because, that always made me curious. I've seen "gangs" since I was eight hanging around like clumps of idiots. _I _never had anything to do with them. Anybody with half a brain has nothing to do with them, especially "anti-hero" types like Jackson. So, I try to explain how it could be possible._

_Oh, and I'll give you three guesses why I can post this at eleven a.m._


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